


The Fantastically Homoerotic Introduction to Viktor Nikiforov

by MarcarellaPizza



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character's Name Spelled as Viktor, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Humor, M/M, Victor Nikiforov is Extra, Yakov Feltsman Is So Done
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:27:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27723467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarcarellaPizza/pseuds/MarcarellaPizza
Summary: There’s a lot to take in: eight inch, glittery, hot pink stilettos strapped to his feet; cheap, golden, plastic wig snug on his head; what could only be Mila’s — another skater who was present for the spontaneous show —  work out crop top and matching booty shorts, and a Bluetooth speaker spitting out Baby by Justin Bieber.Clearly, this meant Viktor wanted lunch.Just some Viktor Nikiforov being Viktor Nikiforov.
Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri & Victor Nikiforov, Katsuki Yuuri & Yuri Plisetsky, Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov, Victor Nikiforov & Yuri Plisetsky
Comments: 2
Kudos: 47





	The Fantastically Homoerotic Introduction to Viktor Nikiforov

**Author's Note:**

> I write too much humour for Viktor, oh man, enjoy!

Katsuki Yuuri would often try and interpret the meaning behind his eccentric fiancé’s actions, and often he was, somehow, accurate.

For instance now, where Viktor is standing on the pool table someone had donated to the Ice Rink’s lounge area years ago. 

There’s a lot to take in: eight inch,  _ glittery _ , hot pink stilettos strapped to his feet; cheap, golden, plastic wig snug on his head; what could only be Mila’s — another skater who was present for the spontaneous show — work out crop top and matching booty shorts, and a Bluetooth speaker spitting out  _ Baby _ by Justin Bieber.

Clearly, this meant Viktor wanted lunch.

With a sigh, Yuuri endures about thirty more seconds of the impromptu dance, because chasing after Viktor’s phone beside the speaker. He doesn’t even know how Viktor snagged his pair of shoes from the closet without his knowledge, but he’d be sure to hide them elsewhere when they got home.

“Shows over Vitya.” Yuuri sighs, a hand offered to the skimpily dressed man. In all fairness, Mila  _ was _ a lot smaller than Viktor, so how he’d wiggled his way into her clothes is still a mystery.

“But Yuuri! I was just about to death drop!” He pouts, jumping off the makeshift stage. He decides to death drop the second he lands, pulling Yuuri into a hasty pair dance.

Mila hoots and whistles, while Georgi, the other skater they share the ice with, places a hand across his heart in admiration.

“Vitya! We should get going!” Yuuri snorts, twisting in Viktor’s grip. It’s a successful way to lead him towards the exit, where he spies the other’s gym bag, but their progress is cut short by their coach barging into the room.

“WHAT’S GOING ON?!” Yakov belts out, eyes sweeping the room from left to right. No one moved as he analyses, he means serious business when he does this, and usually it never ends well for Viktor.

The elder man finally catches the outfit, or lack thereof, the silver haired man is wearing, although it’s more so gold in this case because of the wig. “Yakov!” Viktor brightens, ignorant to the steam spouting from his ears. “You missed my show!”

What Viktor  _ really _ means is that he is planning to do it again, but with more pizzazz and probably more people. Yuuri wouldn’t be surprised if a flash mob stormed the ice rink the next day.

“You’re a skater, not some cheap show trick.” Yakov scolds, much softer than he otherwise would for the rest of the figure skating team. “Go home, don’t come back until you’ve eaten lunch and for the love of all things Russian, get a better taste in music!”

He turns on his heel, pointy staring at Mila and Georgi. There’s no exchange of word, they both know that they’re to begin training, and so they scurry into the main rink as the door slams shut behind.

“Wow, how did he know I was hungry?” Viktor bemuses, ginger tapping his bottom lip quizzically. 

For a person whose 30 going onto 31, and four years Yuuri’s senior, he’s still the manchild he always has been.

“You were dancing to Justin Bieber for one.” Yuuri sighs, thrusting his sports jacket with the letters “R” and “U” emblazoned in red and white on the front, assisting him with zipping up. Russia was a fairly cold place after all — too cold for booty shorts and tiny crop tops.

“So? He’s like… Generation Z Mozart!” He defends as they exit the building, matching engagement rings flashing in the sun.

They’d been planning to move in a few years; with Viktor’s competitive career in figure skating ending that year, Yuuri wouldn’t be too far behind, and so they’d both eventually pack up, move, and get married.

This plan didn’t however, entail terrible Justin Bieber music. 

“Viktor… he’s not even part of Generation Z.” Yuuri rolls his eyes. “And how did you find my stilettos?”

Viktor brushes off the insult to his music tastes, eyes sparkling as he jumps up and down. They’re walking to their shared apartment, it’s only a five minute commute. 

Yuuri watches the ground as Viktor hops bubbly — he’s waiting for it, any moment now, his anxiety is practically screaming alarm bells; Viktor’s gonna jump, twist his ankle or break a bone.

Viktor does all three.

See, there’s a reason why Yuuri has anxiety, and it’s for times especially like these. He can read Viktor, can tell when there’s too much excitement, and he just  _ knows _ when the idiot is about to do something stupid. 

He’s not so good at telling the  _ celebrity _ aspect.

Because, ah yes, Viktor wasn’t just Viktor — he was  _ The _ Viktor Nikiforov — Men’s Figure Skating Prodigy, five times gold medalist, Olympic gold medalist, Russia’s National Treasure. 

The man has a fucking “The” before his name, capitalised and italicised so he’s a big deal okay?

Unfortunately Yuuri isn’t so good with the attention that significant word brings, even if the remainder of the Russian skating team and himself are just as famous.

There’s a nurse explaining the small fracture, pointing at the clunky boot Viktor is forced to wear, behind her is what could only be a swarm of Paparazzi that the hospital security are trying to relocate.

Yuuri sighs, he hates large crowds and attention, but unfortunately that’s what follows when you’re engaged to Viktor. 

“Come back next week and we’ll take another X-ray to ensure it’s on the right track.” The nurse smiles tiredly, eyes darting towards the mass crowd. “We’ll see it that you get out through the back.”

“Thank you.” And Yuuri means it, pulling his fiancé up rather disoriently. Viktor slowly walks, a crutch in his opposite hand assisting him as he pouts. 

“It wasn’t even the cool casts you get to sign.” He complains, “And my final season skating is over!”

“And whose fault is that?” Comes Yakov’s voice, because of course, the coach turned father figure was there. 

“I was distracted!” He excuses, turning to Yakov, “Yuuri was asking about the stilettos—“

“Which are broken.” Yuuri silently adds. A pity really, but he doesn’t mind so much; he knows Viktor will try and make it up to him later.

“Okay I know I broke them, but I was gonna explain how they remind me of this one girl I used to date back when I was a teenager! So really I did you a service by getting rid of them.” Viktor tries to amend. It’s a little narcissistic but Yuuri can’t get mad; well, no one could — you can’t be angry at the injured.

Beside, stilettos were shoes, things to replace, Viktor was not.

Yakov claps a hand on Yuuri’s shoulder with a meaningful look. Yuuri can read that one easily; simply he doesn’t ever want to have to dismiss training to find a sobbing Viktor in Mila’s crop top and boy shorts, pink stilettos and golden wig in all their glory, as a doctor explains the damage done ever again.

Yuuri doesn’t want to either.

“— And she spoke to me again!” Viktor’s voice cuts in, and uh oh, Yuuri recognises _this_ _story_. It’s a dark one that only comes out whenever Viktor is agitated, and his lack of mobility is most certainly agitation in its finest form.

Yakov recognises it too, clearly for one because he’d  _ known Viktor _ back then, and Viktor has told the woeful tale countless times. The coach ditches them exasperatedly at the taxi pick up, and Yuuri almost wished he could disappear too.

“I’ve told you this before — I seriously doubt that girl remembers you falling asleep mid blow job.” Yuuri sighs, rubbing Viktor’s back. The man assisting them with hauling a taxi offers a very lost look, before hastily turning away. Yuuri didn’t blame him — he’d thought Viktor had been joking the first time he’d confessed his secret.

“But she never answered!” Viktor wails. He of course, was referring to a time much more simpler, much more hormonal, and much more teenager.

Viktor begins describing the betrayal of an ex lover’s disappearance with Justin Bieber quotes, and that’s how Yuuri knows his fiancé is tired.

“When I was 13, I had my first love—“

“If you begin to sing, I’ll kick your broken leg.” Yuuri threatens sweetly, effectively shutting up his  _ darling _ Viktor. 

He doesn’t mind the occasional chatter about their past lovers, hell, he’s been adventurous himself — which was quite the surprise for mister Quite and Shy. It’s only when Viktor becomes a soupy puddle of whining goo that it really irks him.

“What do you mean?” Viktor blinks innocently, he knows he’s teasing now.

“Viktor, stop.”

“You think I’m crying on my own well I ain’t—“

He wheezes, and if anybody asks as to why there’s an oddly shaped bruise on his stomach — which they would considering they’d decided to return to the rink after a small rest at home and share the news of Viktor’s stupidity — the answer is given in the form of Yuuri screaming as  _ Beauty and the Geek _ distantly starts to play.

“You hold him, I’ll punch.” Yuuri groans, turning to Yakov. The coach seems to ponder the suggestion as if it merits worth, before snorting.

“Can’t do that or someone will call the cops in thinking we mugged him.” Yakov retorts, shaking his head.

Despite wearing a boot, Viktor still somehow manages to death drop on the pool table again.

Yakov begins to bark orders from the sidelines, commanding Mila to begin her free skate routine once more. Georgi has been given the impossible task of coaxing Viktor to submission as he performed for his empty crowd, but Yuuri is pretty sure it’s more so for the security team upstairs anyway.

“Bah, we need him for tomorrow, I forgot.” Yakov waves a hand, suddenly turning serious. “There’s a new skater coming in.”

“New?” Yuuri repeats, eyes wide, he cracks a smirk before folding his arms. “Already replacing Viktor?” 

“No thanks, one of that idiot is enough.” Yakov rolls his eyes, “It’s more so replacing you actually — his name is Yuri.”

“Another Yuri?” Yuuri bemuses. “How old?” It’s been a while since a new skater joined Russia’s team, the last being Mila. Technically Yuuri had arrived only four years ago but he wasn’t really apart of Yakov’s group; he still skated for Japan under Viktor’s guide. A new skater was certainly exciting.

“15.” Comes the quick reply. “I told Viktor earlier this morning, he’s going to be sharing coaching duties with me.” Yakov mentally groans. It’s still too early to determine if it’s a good idea or not, but keeping Viktor as actively involved in this season is important; they didn’t really fancy a depressed Viktor who was upset with his splendid failure of his career.

“Well… Viktor coaches me and it’s hardly that bad.” Yuuri points out, “Maybe it’ll make him more mature?” 

He seriously doubts that, and the frantic screaming and running as Georgi gives chase to a man with a rainbow wig only cements his brain’s point. 

“I spoke to the kid last week with his grandfather — that kid has more maturity than Viktor and he’s half his age.” Viktor continues screeching lyrics to a new song; Whitney Houston this time, which is honestly a relief because Yuuri loves Whitney.

“ANND IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII WILL ALWAYYYYSS LOVE YYYUUUUURRRRIIIII!!!” Viktor leaps suddenly into his arms, materialising out of nowhere. For a man who’s got a broken ankle, he’s actually rather energetic, and Yuuri is starting to realise that yes, Whitney Houston is a musical genius, but Viktor, not so much.

“Thank you, very lovely dear.” Yuuri says monotonously, patting the man’s head as he clings. Yakov rolls his eyes as Georgi throws his hands up into the air in defeat. Viktor opens his mouth and takes a deep breath. 

“NEAAAARRRRRR, FAAAARRRRR WHEREVERRRRR YOU ARREEE—“

And now  _ Titanic _ is ruined! Perfect!

“So what time is Yuri arriving?” Yuuri tries to continue the conversation, ignoring the petulant please for attention from Viktor.

“6, like the rest of you.” Yakov nods, “Viktor most importantly, you’ll need to be there.”

Viktor lifts his head and enthusiastically nods. “It’ll be wonderful Yakov! A new friend! Where will he be staying? Didn’t you say he’s coming from his grandfather’s in Moscow?”

“I see we need to chat about confidentiality again.” Yakov sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You just need to be here at 5:30.”

“Moscow?” Yuuri turns quizzically. “He’s surely eager to be your student then.” Yakov shrugs, quickly calling Mila out on a lousy free leg as she spun, but Viktor is already set in motion with the new topic, singing be damned.

“I know! Apparently he wants to beat me too! Isn’t that right Yakov? Tell Yuuri what you told me!”

Well, even if there was such a thing as confidentiality, Viktor pretty much blew that concept apart. Yuuri wants to scold the man, who’s still clinging like a leech to his side. Yuuri knows he should reprimand him; he’s just too curious.

With a sigh, Yakov nods defeatedly, fingers drumming against the barrier of the rink wall. “He’s incredibly motivated.” He begins, “he said he wants to surpass, I say and quote ‘The great Viktor Nikiforov’. I personally think it’ll do more harm than good to be so invested but he was certainly a talented skater.”

Yuuri doesn’t understand how Viktor could be so excited that someone wanted to dethrone him so badly, especially now where he could no longer reclaim any titles lost. But the man is eager to please it seems, and so Yuuri nods his head and goes along with it.

“And I need you now tonight, and I need—“

“Viktor. Shut up.” Yuuri says, a kiss locking his lips closed permanently. Yakov should be disgusted, most certainly after the kiss ends with a lewd sound, but he’s far too grateful for the lack of Viktor sound waves travelling across the rink to care.

He only hopes their new rink mate doesn’t mind loud, energetic, narcissistic men who most of the time can’t tell their left from their right. 

And it turns out that hoping is fruitless, because Yuri is most certainly a teenager who has so much angst in his already hormone-full body, there’s not enough space to deal with Viktor’s bull shit.

Thankfully the morning’s welcome only had Yakov and Yuuri, Viktor having gotten up later, as predicted, leaving the two  _ actually  _ responsible people to attend to the newcomer

The child is fairly short, lanky, 70% leg, 30%  _ something  _ else, with golden hair running down to his chin. Yuuri wonders if it gets in the way with skating seeing as it’s fixed in place, covering his right, turquoise eye.

In fact, he’s never seen a more striking colour before. It’s vibrant, reminding him of Viktor’s own electric blue, but before he can creepily study the teenager in  _ leopard print _ anymore, he’s being called out.

“What’s it to you?” Yuri glares.

Wow. He most  _ definitely  _ will get along with Viktor.

“Well, I’m just thinking about how we go about this.” Yuuri says slowly, extending a hand, “My name is also Yuuri.”

The teenager stares at his hand judgmentally before rolling his eyes, shaking it with the most disliking Yuuri has ever seen. “You’re way too chipper.”

PERFECT for Viktor!

“Katsuki is actually the most mature out of the other idiots.” Yakov speaks up, “Good luck with them then.”

Yuri considers this new bit of information with disdain. Frowning as he sighs. “Katsuki, was it? He’ll do then. I don’t want to bother with the other skaters.” It’s as if a judge has passed the final sentence, gravel bashing down in finality.

Neither of the adults make a move to oppose him.

“For future reference, we’ll need to find a way to differentiate you two.” Yakov hums, “A nickname for the new one.”

“Screw that.” Yuri sneers. “Katsuki can get a nickname.”

“—YUURI! MY LIGHT! MY LOVE! MY MOST BEAUTIFUL FIANCÉ! YUUUUURRIII COME HITHER!—“ They pause as Viktor’s voice echoes. 

“I change my mind, that’s disgusting, I never want to hear my name like that ever again.” Yuri demands. “Find a nickname and I’ll determine if it’s worthy enough.”

Yuuri sighs as he hears the methodical step and then clack of boot and shoe, meaning Viktor is most likely a) wearing some shoe that should  _ not _ be paired with a boot or b) he’s completely forgotten Yakov and Yuri would be present and he  _ shouldn’t  _ give Yuuri a lap dance.

“He’s probably forgotten this morning’s arrangements.” Yuuri huffs, and right on cue,  _ Careless Whispers _ begins to faintly play from the lounge room. The sound of the pool table being moved also follows, and with horror, Yuuri bolts.

“VIKTOR DON'T YOU DARE DEATH DROP ON THE POOL TABLE!” He screams in his wake.

Yuri’s expression is bewildered, mouth agape as he stares at the coach for an explanation. “Viktor as in Nikiforov? My  _ other _ coach?”

Yakov almost pities the child’s naivety, all new acquaintances of Viktor tended to learn his eccentric ways the hard way; first handley.

“Yes.” He sighs. He can hear Yuuri screaming, and Viktor singing made up lyrics in a terrible rendition of the tune, but he’s honestly so used to it by now he’s numb. “Probably trying to perform erotic dances for Yuuri… again.”

“Again?!” Yuri repeats. This was not what he signed up for when he claimed to want to beat the so called ‘Legend’. 

But now this man is assisting in  _ coaching _ him. And he’d apparently broken his ankle too. This only meant an easier path to victory — no pun intended. “They’ll be back soon.” Yakov’s voice wanders into his thoughts, dragging him back to reality. The music has stopped playing and Yuuri and Viktor have quietness down to hushed voices.

Thank god.

“Yakov!” Comes the distant call from the rink wall, singsong and gayly. “My dear Yakov! Stop hogging the new Yuri and lemme meet him!” There’s a grumble from Yakov as he slowly turns, eyes closed as he forces air through his nose.

“Have you gotten your  _ Careless Whispers _ routine out of your system yet?” Yuuri plasters a smile on his face.

“Of course! I’ll show Yakov my ever-improving slutdrop later!” He shivers in condolence for Yakov.

“Slutdrops and death drops?” He hears Yuri mutter, “The fuck he think he is? James Charles on ice skates?”

“Most definitely.” Yuuri sighs, catching Yakov’s questioning look. It’s subtle and non-differentiable from his usual monotone face, but there are some tells that clue Yuuri in. He’s screwed.

“That’s wonderful love.” Yuuri calls back, hearing a gagging, wretched sound emit from Yuri’s throat. He’d chalk it up to typical teenager behaviour if it weren’t for Yakov doing the same thing more discreetly. 

He almost wants to hope that this is a mere fluke, but judging by the faces his new rinkmates share, Yuri knows he’s only gone and dug his own grave. Crap.


End file.
